


And Honest, Honest Hearts

by AccioRavenclaw



Series: The Lyra Chronicles [1]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Caesar's Legion, Canonical Character Death, Gen, Honest Hearts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-30
Updated: 2017-04-30
Packaged: 2018-10-25 23:25:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10774671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AccioRavenclaw/pseuds/AccioRavenclaw
Summary: The Courier has always been good at running.When she finally completes her delivery only to find out the job isn't over yet, she does what she does best.  She runs with a caravan as far away as she can, but she doesn't find freedom in distance this time.  For it seems the Legion follows her wherever she goes when she runs straight to Zion and the conflict brewing with the White Legs.





	And Honest, Honest Hearts

Benny is dead. Lyra exits the Tops with a checkered scarf and blood spatter on her face. Her eyes are set to the Lucky 38, the chip secure in her pocket and determination in every line of her body.  
  
She just has to finish this job.  
  
He approaches her like a ghost, cuts through the crowded streets and stops her in her tracks. He’s traded the hood and shades for gambler’s camo; his hat throws shadows in his eyes, but she knows him. The scent of flesh-fires and death forever in her memory.  
  
“The eyes of the might Caesar are upon you,” he declares in the crowd of gamblers and NCR soldiers. He reaches for her, and she does not allow herself to recoil at his touch as he presses a coin to her hand.  
  
“Go to Cottonwood Cove. A boat will be waiting there to take you to Fortification Hill.” He instructs and every fiber of her being protests. She nearly died crossing that river, her blood mixed with its waters and into its mud. She will never willingly cross it again.  
  
But Vulpes does not know that; has not recognized her twice now. But why should he? The women are all the same in his eye, no doubt. As far as he is concerned, a slave died in the river in the dead of night. Carried by the current with a spear through her shoulder and close to her heart. What mind should he pay that when there are hundreds of others to take her place?  
  
She watches as he disappears back into the crowd. Doesn’t stop staring at the sea of people, even when an NCR messenger presses a letter from the ambassador into her hands.  
  


* * *

  
  
She rides the elevator to the penthouse of the Lucky 38. She just has to finish this job. She repeats the thought like a mantra, like a promise.  
  
_Finish the job. Finish the job. Just finish this job._  
  
Then she can leave the Mojave behind - put the Legion to her back once more. Let the Mojave sort itself out. The war between the bear and the bull is not hers.  
  
Except House isn’t finished with her yet. Even with the upgrade broadcasted to every Securitron on the Strip, it isn’t enough.  
  
For men like him it will never be enough.  
  
He’s mistaken her for being some permanently employed errand girl, up for the next job. He doesn’t negotiate this new job. He _orders_ her to go to Caesar’s fort across the river, one of the Securitrons pressing the platinum chip into her hand the same way Vulpes had with the copper coin.  
  
She pretends she will, swallows the order behind a pleasant smile that’s hiding daggers. Once she’s free of the Secuitron’s watchful eyes, and past the gates of Freeside, she runs as fast as she can.  
  
_Run. Run. Run. Never stop running._  
  
It’s exactly what she does, what she has done and will continue to do. She takes off and doesn’t look back. The cracked and sun baked pavement hard under her feet.  
  
She runs straight to the Crimson Caravan compound where Ringo, of all the people in the Mojave, catches her at the gate. And though he can see that she’s in some kind of rush, he stops her long enough to pass some caps to her and holds her attention long enough to mention a caravan job going to Utah.  
  
Utah screams distance and that has her attention, so she asks several rapid fire questions. Where can she join and when do they leave? And Ringo has answers to both.  
  
So she leaves through the garage door again and takes the road north. The north must be better than staying in a land with a brewing war.  
  
She’s done more than enough already.  
  


* * *

  
  
She doesn’t like Ricky. She finds his lies annoying and his attitude piss poor when he’s not high on Psycho. She knows there’s something wrong with his Pip-Boy, since he keeps missing opportunities to brag by making her pull up her map.  
  
Jed isn’t the worst caravan boss she’s ever worked for. She wishes he would stop referring to her as “Little Lady”, but she’s dealt with worse. After her last employer she’s willing to put up with the masked condescension.  
  
She doesn’t find Stella a terrible companion either. She swaps stories about New Reno and Caliente for stories of the places she’s been: Arizona, across the NCR, and around the Mojave. Lyra doesn’t mention the lands across the river.  
  
Maybe that’s why Lyra takes the time to properly arrange their bodies after the last of the White Legs from the ambush party lay dead.  
  
As she lays rocks she’s reminded of the boy at the trading post from several weeks ago. “Two to the skull, yet one gets up.”  
  
For some reason she’s always the survivor.  
  


* * *

  
  
It is strange, she decides. Strange to be sitting across a campfire and sharing bits of charred gecko meat with the Burned Man of legend and a handful of Dead Horse tribals.  
  
Joshua sits over by the fire, embers crackling up between them as he reads. Lyra doesn’t realize she’s been staring until he looks up from the old, battered book. “If you want you can borrow my copy.”  
  
“No thank you.” Lyra politely declines, a tone of forced civility behind her words.  
  
“You wouldn’t be taking, I have a few copies with me. It is always good to read the word of the Lord.” He insists.  
  
“I’m good.” She tries again, tone more forced.  
  
He starts to form a reply but she’s quick to interrupt.  
  
“I can’t read, so there’s no point in handing me a book.” She says. It’s a half truth, since she can’t read English at least. “I appreciate the offer though.”  
  
“Oh.”  
  
Her answer works, Joshua drops the subject entirely, but the silence is an uncomfortable one.  
  


* * *

  
  
“Do you like being a caravan guard?” Follows-Chalk asks as they search the general store.  
  
“It keeps me moving, and that seems to be the only thing I’m good at. Wandering the wastes and trying not to get mauled by its various inhabitants. If it’s not Deathclaws, it seems the Yao Guai will do.”  
  
“Yes, they are another kind of mean. So you’ve been many places then?”  
  
“I’ve been lots of places with the caravans: Shady Sands, Vault City, Circle Junction, New Reno, and all over the Mojave.”  
  
“You do not like to stay in one place long?” He asks, tossing one of the lunch boxes across the room for her to catch.  
  
“No. I just feel better on the road. Which is odd considering the open roads are the most dangerous.” She replies, putting the tin box in her pack with the others.  
  
“What are the lands to the south like?”  
  
“A mess,” she replies with a shrug. “The whole Mojave is in a mad grab for power. NCR can’t get a grip on the locals, House doesn’t care for anyone outside of Vegas’s walls, and the Legion is a nightmare that sits across the river.”  
  
“What is the Legion like?” Follows-Chalk asks. It’s an innocent question, and she knows he wants answers that Joshua will not give. But it’s still a question that makes old scars itch.  
  
“They make the White Legs look tame. I’d rather not talk about them, if you don’t mind.” She doesn’t meet his eyes as she clears off a shelf.  
  


* * *

  
  
She wakes, jolting upright and screaming. The echo of Benny’s voice taunting her still. At least it wasn’t Vulpes this time, but that’s hardly an improvement.  
  
She breathes: in-out, in-out, and runs callused hands over her arms to fight off the chill of the night. She feels the sweat prickling along the skin of her forehead and neck; and knows the tremble in her hands is from more than the cold.  
  
It takes her too long to realize that Joshua is staring at her from his own bedroll across the cave.  
  
“I’m sorry,” she says, her breath still too short.  
  
“It happens.” he replies, settling back into his own bedroll.  
  
She rolls over in her's so that her back is to him. To ignore the stare of his blue eyes in the low firelight.  
  
Neither of them go back to sleep.  
  


* * *

  
  
Lyra finds Joshua Graham in his usual place, in the heart of Angel Cave, with his hands busy with a half-disassembled gun.  
  
“Am I interrupting?” she asks. Her eyes linger on the surface of his desk, the black leather-bound Bible a fixture among the shell casings and piles of pistols. The old map she had handed to Daniel sits spread out under it all.  
  
“Not at all.” He replies. So she walks deeper into the cave.  
  
“We managed to repel the White Legs before they could make it to the Eastern Virgin.” She explains.  
  
“Yes, my scouts confirmed their retreat to the Southern Passage.”  
  
She leans across the table and points at spots on the faded paper map laid out on the table. She uses the empty shell casings as markers. “I found a few places we could rig traps. Daniel gave me some C-4 to rig the path with. He thinks it’ll push them back and buy us time for the evacuation. It easily can, but…” She rubs at the back of her neck. “If we can keep them repelled, we might be able to actually mount an offensive.”  
  
Joshua says nothing, but his eyes stay fixated on the locations she’s marking. When they talk of action against the White Legs, she sees the Legate in him rear his head. She knows this isn’t something she should encourage.  
  
“Have you spoken to Daniel?” he asks smoothly, like laying a hand of aces on the table. But these are battle plans, not the black jack tables of the Wrangler.  
  
“I talked to Daniel and he won’t listen. You and I both know that running isn’t a permanent solution. Daniel doesn’t agree. I can see that he means well, but he doesn’t really know the Legion.” She wants to add, _‘not like we do’_ , but doesn’t. She won’t reveal her hand to a man she’s not certain she should be trusting. “When all is said and done, the decision is between you and him. But if you do stay to fight, just know that I’m ready to fight with you.”  
  
All in all, she recognizes that Daniel's plan is probably best. Better to run than risk injury and death at the hands of a group seeking Caesar's favor. But she can't deny the desire to wipe out the White Legs. If not the whole Legion then perhaps they'll do. At the very least prevent them from becoming the eighty-eighth tribe absorbed under Caesar's command.  
  
When it comes down to it, whatever Daniel and Joshua decide to do, she will help in the only way she knows how: With a blade and loaded gun.  
  


* * *

  
  
“You really are some kind of lucky.” Follows-Chalk tells her as Walking Cloud applies a healing powder to the bleeding wounds on her back. “Most warriors don’t survive a mother Yao Guai attack. Fewer with such light wounds.”  
  
“Lucky would have been sneaking past.” Lyra replies through gritted teeth, biting back a whimper. She knows she’s lucky the beast’s claws only raked her skin through her armor. It could have been much worse. Though she would prefer to be under Daniel’s more advanced medical care, the Dead Horse camp was the closest and the safety is better than the open canyon road.  
  
Lyra flinches hard when Walking Cloud’s hand passes over the brand on the back of her neck. Her fingers tracing the outline of a bull as she asks how she _earned_ it. They think of their tattoos; think of victories in battle and successful hunts. Neither knows the pain nor the shame.  
  
The last person she wants seeing her exposed back – seeing the brand – speaks before she can find her words.  
  
“I have the bandages you asked for.” Joshua says. His words are careful, controlled. But the voice is not a perfect mask. He’s seen, _he knows._  
  
For a moment she wants to tell him that it was not his hand that held the iron. However, she bites back her words and does not tell him anything. She does not turn to look at him, her eyes stay fixated on a rock in front of her crisscrossed feet. Thankfully, he does not stay.  
  
They both burned, but for vastly different reasons.  
  


* * *

  
  
“Show no quarter,” Joshua says with fire in his eyes. So Lyra is quick to kill the White Legs who dare cross their path.  
  
She dances with the pain-maker, the blade in her hand a familiar weight; like an extension of her own arm. A blade she took off the corpse of a man who butchered her people. The blade with a Legion stamp engraved in it: a match to the one in her own skin.  
  
It’s a quick fight, her blade connects with his throat and he crumbles at her feet. He gurgles blood before going still – lifeless.  
  
Joshua is still firing at the storm-drummer. His grip on the pistol is firm as he takes shot after shot.  
  
When the White Legs finally lies dead in the dirt he turns to her. Here he is the Legate again, furious and wrathful. She wonders what he sees in her: Legionary in all but her birth.  
  
“You good?” She asks, readjusting her grip on the machete.  
  
“Good.” He answers. He hasn’t reloaded yet.  
  
Lyra wipes blood spatter off her cheek with the back of her hand. Looks at the body at her feet again. She doesn't find the satisfaction she was hoping for.  
  
They continue their trek down river.  
  


* * *

  
  
The leader of the White Legs is on his knees, at her mercy, and Lyra actually hesitates. A man who would not do the same if their positions were reversed.  
  
Joshua holds his gun in an iron grip, his eyes burning into the tribe’s leader with something far darker. Lyra thinks it’s how she looked at Benny before she shot him at his own bar.  
  
Right now, she needs to decide what to do with Salt-Upon-Wounds and the rest of the White Legs. Quickly before Joshua makes the decision for her.  
  
She wanted to see them burn, but now; now she knows she made a mistake. Too late to take it back.  
  
She looks around at the gathered Dead Horses and Sorrows. She cannot unsee the part of herself in the Sorrows; see that they are as she once was. How her people welcomed strangers and were burned so harshly for it.

But she sees all of their eyes on Joshua, and she hesitates. She convinced them all to follow him. His actions hold more weight than hers ever will. He hasn't broken free of any cycle, no amount of flowery book quotes will convince her of that again. She sees the fires in Joshua’s eyes and knows he sees Caesar.  
  
These people were prepared to listen to Daniel, a better voice of reason, and she selfishly pushed them towards fire and war.  
  
If she must leave some example, a lesson for them all, then she will make this one. As the “owslandr” it will not be the same as allowing Joshua to do it.  
  
“Joshua,” she starts, a warning in his name.  
  
“He gave no mercy to my family, I will give none to his.” Joshua replies before she can finish. He doesn’t look at her. He’s still looking at Salt-Upon-Wounds, on his knees next to the other White Legs Joshua has already killed. Blood slipping into the river and turning it red, red, red. She had a hand in it too.  
  
“You and I know that goes both ways here, Joshua.” She replies in Latin. That gets his attention: his blue eyes turn to her, but the grip on his gun is steady. Like he’ll never let it go.  
  
She’s not above killing Salt-Upon-Wounds herself. A decision before he makes it himself. Still in Latin she says, “He’ll pay, just not to you.”  
  
She looks at the Sorrows and recognizes the Sun Dogs in them.  
  
Salt-Upon-Wounds is not Benny. He is not Vulpes or Caesar. Just a man she put her own anger and blame upon.  
  
So she unclips the .10 mm at her belt and shoots him herself.  
  


* * *

  
  
She wants to leave Zion that night, but lingers in the camp into the early hours of the morning. The Sorrows are celebrating and the Dead Horses feast with them. They are victorious.  
  
Daniel doesn’t look at her anymore, fine by her. He can hate her for her choices, that's more than fair. She tells herself she’s prepared these people in case a far worse group comes from the south. That they cannot afford to be ignorant of the dangers outside people present them. Not all who wander into their canyon will be as nice as she and the New Cannonites are.  
  
If she can consider herself “nice”. Most days that’s up for debate.  
  
Watching Follows-Chalk and Walking Cloud talk over a grilled gecko, she feels out of place on the outskirts of the celebration. Her choice and her reasons: It's not much of an excuse either, she thinks to herself watching them, but she'll live with it. Standing and dusting off her knees she heads towards the cave.  
  
Joshua is inside Angel Cave, away from the noise and the celebrations. “Hello Courier.” He greets.  
  
“Lyra,” she corrects. She knows his name: the real one, the title, and the one used in hushed whispers around campfires. He may as well know hers beyond her title, beyond her own myth.  
  
He pauses for a minute, stares at her with soft campfire light dancing in his eyes, till finally, “Hello, Lyra.” Another pause. “I figured you would still be outside with the celebrations.”  
  
“I prefer the quiet.” She replies casually. As though there isn’t tension between them thick enough to slice with a knife.  
  
“I suppose you want passage back to the south. We did have an agreement.”  
  
She almost wants to ask him for passage further North. He of all people in the canyon would be the one to understand.  
  
But the Mojave calls to her. Her time in Zion has showed her that she cannot simply leave the two armies to sort themselves out. The fight between the bear and the bull is hers; like it or not.  
  
Maybe she'll put it to rest. Or die trying, because it seems that she'll always run towards that. Run from the Legion and into another conflict. Run from the Legion but see them in everyone else. Run from the Legion, but use a former Legate to fight her battles.  
  
No more. The chip sits heavy in her pocket, the cards are for her to play.  
  
“I was planning on leaving early tomorrow. It’s a long walk back to the Mojave and Happy Trails is going to want to know what happened to the caravan I was with.”  
  
“I understand. I’ll have Follows-Chalk guide you later.”  
  
She says her thanks and turns to leave, but Joshua isn’t done with her just yet.  
  
“Can I ask what tribe you originally hailed from?”  
  
The question stops her dead in her tracks. The old brand tingles and the hairs stand up on the back of her neck. “How do you know I wasn’t born into the Legion. It’s been around long enough for me to be as old as I am.”  
  
“Those born into it don’t escape. And the women certainly don’t fight as I’ve seen you do.”  
  
It’s a harmless enough answer for a man she’ll probably never meet again. “The Sun Dogs of Arizona.”  
  
“I see. In which case I feel that I owe you an apology.”  
  
“Apologies don’t bring back dead families or heal a lifetime of scars.” She replies with venom. “It is what it is.” A life robbed from her in fire and blood.  
  
Joshua doesn’t linger on her response, doesn’t push the issue. Instead he says, “Can I ask why you use a Legion weapon?” His tone casual as though he were asking about the weather.  
  
“Not because of any allegiance, if that’s what you’re worried about.”  
  
“I have no doubt that you hold no loyalty to the Legion among other things. I was merely curious why you carry such a weapon.”  
  
_Bullshit he's curious_ , her thoughts snap in response. A thousand thoughts brush along the surface; Does he think apologizing absolves him of blame or the things that he's done? Her fingers brush the frayed edges of her scarf. A darker thought pokes through: what's it say about herself? After everything in Zion and for a man she’ll probably never meet again, she’ll answer the question.  
  
She pulls the blade from her belt and carries it carefully in both hands and brings it to him to read the carving she put on the handle: Ab alio spectes alteri quod feceris. _As you do to another, expect another to do to you._  
  
“I pried it off the corpse of the Decanus that murdered my family.” She explains, though no question was asked of her.  
  
He looks at her again with those blue soul piercing eyes. “I see.”  
  


* * *

  
  
It’s late afternoon when she shoulders her pack and begins the walk to the canyon that started everything for her in Zion. The black bound Bible sits snug next to her spare clothes inside the weathered bag. Joshua had handed her his copy, insisting that it was for when she learns to read English. Maybe she will one day, but for now it sits as an extra weight in her bag.  
  
She passes the mound of rocks where she buried the others: Ricky, Jed, and Stella. Despite her differences and the brief time she knew them, she would like to think that she won’t forget them. Feels that she owes them memory if nothing else.  
  
“This is the cave.” Follows-Chalk tells her, pointing to the entrance. There’s a gleam in his eye, being this close to the doorway to the rest of the world. She almost regrets telling him to stay.  
  
“Thank you, Follows-Chalk.” She says, then adds, “I guess this is good bye.”  
  
“Yes, good bye. I hope you will visit again with other caravans.” He replies.  
  
“I’ll try.” She says, her answer unclear. She knows she may never come back. The road she walks is a dangerous one, and she may as well die before she sees the end of it.  
  
He nods, understanding as she walks past him towards the mouth of the cavern.  
  
She doesn’t turn back, doesn’t allow herself the regret, and just puts one foot in front of the other on her way back to the Mojave.

**Author's Note:**

> I've been meaning to do a piece for this DLC for some time now. 
> 
> EDIT: Updated 4/6/18. Updated some grammar and added a few lines for clarity.


End file.
